


Dowsing the Phantom

by alltoseek



Series: The Bridge [3]
Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian
Genre: Character Turned Into a Ghost, Community: spook_me, F/M, Ghosts, Haunting, Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 10:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2578952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate ending to "Rest" (one change in the beginning as well).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dowsing the Phantom

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2575709) by [alltoseek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek). 



> Many thanks to feroxargentea for the beta, and for Stephening-up the medicalese :-)

When had his daughter become such an adept manager of men, Stephen Maturin wondered. Here he was, driving some fifty miles through frigid air merely to attend a concert in Bath, when the most vigorous activity he had planned for the day was a journey from the side of the generous fire in the library to that of the one in the dining room.

“This is the third time you have mentioned the Liszt concert, papa,” Brigid had said. “You should go.”

Stephen did not attend concerts any more. Not since Jack's death the previous year. Which even he had to admit was ironic, since he had attended many a concert without his particular friend, and indeed had even preferred to go alone, rather than endure Jack's large knee bouncing at his side, his broad hand waving about his face. Nevertheless, Stephen no longer attended concerts, which were fairly easy to avoid in any case, buried in Hampshire as he was, far from civilised music. Too far for an old man such as himself to travel. Stephen felt he'd earned the right to stay home, if he chose. He'd travelled enough for one lifetime.

“Your lovely horses could use the exercise, so they could, too,” Brigid had said.

“I exercised them just yesterday! For hours!” cried Stephen.

“They stood in the cold for hours, having moved not more than half a mile from home, whilst you tramped about the commons.”

Stephen could not deny it. His collections were awaiting him in the library, on the large table by the generous fire. All those years of travelling to the farthest reaches of the globe, and yet he could be absorbed by a myriad of finds in his own neighbourhood.

“I do not wish to go alone,” said Stephen peevishly.

“Then take Georgiana,” answered Brigid.

Stephen opened his mouth to object, then closed it when he realised he had no argument to make. The child was old enough, and the Dear knew she was quiet and still enough for a concert. Unnaturally quiet and still, whilst music played. How often had he and Jack come across her, listening to them play until the small hours, she having escaped the nursery who knew how long ago, awake the whole time.

This same quiet child now interrupted his reverie, as they drove along the frozen country road. “Who is that lady, _daideo_?”

Stephen frowned. “What lady, child?”

“That one – she is waving and calling to you.”

The hamlet of Maiden Oscott was quiet, hardly a soul visible, no ladies at all, and no one looking their way nor calling nor waving.

“She always waves to me, when we come this way, but I've never seen her wave at anyone else,” continued his granddaughter. “Mama can see her, but pretends not to. The lady never waves to mama. Or to Patrick. Patrick says he can't see her, but he can, he is a deceitful creature who tells the black lies of the world, so he is.”

Georgiana was quiet most of the time, except when she had her grandfather to herself. When asked why she spoke so little, she said, “No one listens.” Stephen could not but acknowledge the truth of that.

“Hush, _gariníon_ , do not speak so of your brother,” said Stephen abstractedly. He slowed the horses to an easy walk down the hill. “Where is this lady? What does she look like?”

“She's right there. In the blue dress, with black hair. And a blue bonnet. Why is she waving to you if you can't see her?”

Stephen's heart leapt, then thudded dully in his chest. He'd heard vague tales of ghosts haunting the Maiden Oscott bridge – no one dared talk to him of it directly, of course, no one who knew how he'd been widowed. Sure it was true that there'd been many deaths at the bridge over the years. He'd never thought to connect the legend to Diana.

He pulled his pair to a stop next to the vacant spot at which Georgiana was smiling and waving. “Is the lady still there, child?”

“Yes, she is laughing and thanking you for finally stopping this time. She calls you Maturin, but without saying Doctor first,” added Georgiana in a disapproving tone. “Who is she, to be so familiar?”

“Never mind that now. How do you do, my dear?” Stephen said to the empty air. “May I be of assistance? Does she hear me?” this in an urgent undertone to his granddaughter.

“She asks if she may ride with us over the bridge.”

“It would be my great pleasure, madam.” Stephen said. He looped the reins about the rail of the carriage and stepped down. The horses sidled, restless, and he spoke a calming word to them as he passed in front of them on his way to the invisible lady. He held out his hand, as if to assist her into the carriage. Georgiana shifted over to make room. The horses whinnied and shied again, rolling their eyes. Stephen moved quickly to their heads and calmed them once more. “All settled then?” he called to his passenger. Passengers. Georgiana nodded.

Stephen walked back to his side and climbed aboard. Before he could gather the reins, they started slipping from their loop, the horses pulling once again, moving restlessly, out of step. Stephen took firm hold of the reins and gathered his team back to their senses. “Tcha now, be patient. It is the long road we have still.” When they were settled again he started them up.

Mindful of his horses' sudden attack of nerves, Stephen took the road through the village at a sedate pace, making the turn onto the bridge at little more than a crawl. Halfway across, something happened, he could hardly make out what. The reins seemed to be yanked out of his grasp, and at the same time half of his body seized up, as if suddenly frozen. He gasped for breath, unable to do more, not even to speak nor call out. The leader tried to bolt forward, whilst the wheeler reared back. The whole carriage tipped, and they fell over the low stone wall into the water.

~o~o~

The villagers hurried to bring up Georgiana, bundling her in coats and taking her quickly into the inn.

Laughing, Diana hauled Stephen up onto the bank, his aged bones complaining the whole way. “However did you become so old, Maturin?”

“I am very sorry to have disappointed you, my dear. You yourself are as lovely as ever.” Even more lovely than he remembered, perhaps. He thought he could never have forgotten her inimitable grace, her head held high, her back straight, the curve of her ear, the flash of her eyes, which her beloved blue diamond could never match. Yet he felt himself struck anew by the vision in front of him, leaving him without adequate words, entirely breathless.

“The little girl – she is not Brigid, is she? For some reason I had thought – is she one of Jack's grandchildren, then?”

“Yes – and one of ours.”

“Oh! Then Brigid and George have made a match of it; how very apt. George was quite taken with her, I remember. Tell me, is their marriage any more successful than Jack and Sophie's?”

“It is impossible to judge a marriage from the outside; who am I to say if they are truly happy? Yet Brigid seems content enough; full of joy, she is, too. As for Jack and Sophie, they seemed well enough: it is no doubt impossible to travel a lifetime joined to another without an argument or two along the way. I could say that the Aubreys, older and younger, have more successful marriages than we did, in all truth; yet also say that if ever they are as happy as you and I were, together, my love, I should be bestowing the highest praise.”

“Oh, Maturin,” Diana said, laughing prettily. “How very much I have missed you. Let us never be parted again, please. I will promise never to leave you again, if you will not leave me.”

“A renewal of our vows, is it? I suppose that is in order, as even death can no longer part us. We are dead, then, are we not? I ask because I had certainly understood you to have died many years ago; indeed, I buried you, with your beautiful diamond, your Blue Peter. Yet here you are, and here I am, and I do not feel dead.”

“No,” said Diana, looking closely into Stephen's face. “You do not look it either. You look younger now, too; younger than a few minutes ago, I mean. But I understand your confusion. It took me a long time to realise I had died. Seems an eternity, now, yet it passed by as no more than a particularly tedious afternoon, at the time.”

“Since you do not require my care (rather the opposite, indeed) I shall go in to see how Georgiana fares. I feel compelled to treat her, though I suppose I cannot.”

“Yes, please do see to her.”

Stephen returned to Diana's side; she had been too anxious to go inside. “Maturin, will she – is she – ?”

“She will do well, with the blessing,” answered Stephen. “Her respiration is clear, with no wheezing to the pulmonary bases and very little coughing; I believe she did not inhale any water. No lesions to her head; only minor abrasions and contusions. The kind folk are warming her inside and out, seating her by the fire and plying her with broth.”

“Oh, thank God,” cried Diana. “If she had died too, I do not think I could have borne it.”

“So this is death, is it?” said Stephen, peering about through narrowed eyes. “Looks very much like life.”

“Oh, this horrid place!” cried Diana. “I am heartily sick of it.”

“Shall we cross over, then, my dear?”

“Yes, please, let's do.”

Arm in arm they strolled across the bridge, walking on until they faded from view.


End file.
